* * *
Traffic was light for a Monday morning in DC. When he pulled into the station downtown, it was 7 a.m. on the nose. He would be a few minutes late punching in, but nothing worthy of drawing attention.
He ran straight toward the time clock, getting behind a couple of other last-minute stragglers.
“Mikey, where’s the fire?” Davenport shouted.
“No, fire, Jimmy. Just pleased as fucking punch to be here.”
“I know that’s a lie. Ain’t nobody happy to behere.”
“Gospel,” said Mikey. “You’re preaching now.”
When he reached his case, Leslie stuck her head around the partition. “Hey, Mikey, how goes it?”
“I’m good, girl. How are you?”
“Oh, you know... just the usual. Cindy and me had a spat this morning.”
“Lesbian bed death?”
“NO!” she shouted, throwing some menu fliers at him. “Very funny. She wants to move her mother in with us.”
“NO!” Mikey shouted, and they both laughed.
“I’m just kidding, Cin. But don’t get trapped in my situation. I mean, at least you’re married and have a wife. All I got is a worthless sister. I love my Ma, but I’m beginning to think I’ll be taking care of both of them forever. Maybe if I had a fella, it’d be different.”
“But our place issmall, Mikey. Only one bathroom.”
“Same, girl. I’ve been dealing with that shit since I was born.”
Hank McAllister, the supervisor, hollered at them from his desk halfway across the large facility. “OK ladies, your mail’s not gonna case itself. We’re splitting a route because Jackson called out. Both of y’all are getting a piece. So can the chatter and get busy. It’s going to be a long day.”
“Charming,” Cindy said, trudging back to her case.
“I hate this fucking place,” Mikey mumbled. “When was the last time they cleaned it, 1983?”
“Longer.”
* * *
It was only the station he hated—the politics of hierarchy, the filth, and the favoritism. Mikey loved his actual job. Once he was in the truck and out on the street with his music, far away from the hypocritical BS, he was fine.
Maria Callas sang in his headphones as he crossed 23rd, heading over to Dupont Circle and Embassy Row.
He parked in one of his usual spots. The Department of Public Works and the Metro PD worked in conjunction with mail carriers. Mikey sometimes chalked this up to joint-commiseration, all being employed by Uncle Sam. It was a fortunate partnership though, as there were few designated parking spots for delivery in DC, most meters being two hours or fewer on weekdays. With the public, the DPW was merciless with parking enforcement. Mikey spent a lot of the day on his feet, operating out of a parked vehicle. He kept his permit prominently displayed, but he was still friendly to any “co” workers he came in contact with, knowing many by name—an unspoken camaraderie he valued, knowing they had each other’s backs in the event of something as small as identifying burglary or vandalism suspects to something as catastrophic 9/11. It made him feel as if he were part of a network for the greater good, an ethic often completely alien to the station he’d just left.
He checked the parking brake, got out, and went around to the back of the truck.
There were a few parcels, mostly small ones—a perk that came with a walking route. He organized his satchel with everything he needed and switched to his third music genre of the day—disco and pop divas—a mix that he could easily sing along to.
He slammed the rolling door to the truck shut, double-checking to make sure everything was secure before heading deeper in The Circle.
* * *
Embassy Row came first, and Mikey sangXanadufor those sharing the sidewalks with him. He sang lower but in harmony with his partner Olivia Newton-John, about a place where nobody dared to go. He waved to the handsome guard outside the Saudi embassy on his left.
Let’s get physical, baby.
